


there is a place

by brattyloser



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:12:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brattyloser/pseuds/brattyloser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The roof of a sound stage may not seem like a great place to unwind, but Michael likes it just fine. Ray learns that there is one rule though. One imperative, unbreakable rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is a place

**Author's Note:**

> sexbangingdanny made a tumblr post about a really fun and potentially heartbreaking headcanon, so I wrote 3500 words about it for some reason.

The first time Michael mentions it, the two of you are standing in the kitchen watching his leftovers spin around in the microwave. The whole office is abuzz with noise and commotion, but you let yourself revel in the relative quiet between you and him and the warming food. You don’t want to let the chaos rattle your bones just yet. It’s been a hellish day, a hellish week really, and you’re glad you can take sixty seconds out of your day to just breathe.

“There’s something I wanna show you,” Michael says, eyes never straying from the microwave. He drums the table a few times and you take a bite out of your banana as the neon numbers count down. “You have to promise to keep it a secret though.”

Your gaze flicks to him for a brief moment before you refocus on the heating food slowly spinning on the glass turntable. You’re good at keeping secrets. Well, you aren’t terrible at it. You’ve kept plenty of secrets before, most of them your own. What was one more to an ever-growing collection?

You shrug. “Alright,” you say.

The microwave beeps and Michael doesn’t mention it again for the rest of the day.

It’s the next afternoon when he brings it up again; you’re headed out the door to grab lunch but Michael grabs you instead. You’re not sure if his hands are actually shaking of if it’s your imagination, but you ignore your hunger and let Michael guide you around the back of the building anyway.

“Gets too loud in there, y’know? Shit gets under my skin and pisses me off.” Michael says as he sidesteps a hedge and you find that statement all too ironic because Michael is probably one of the loudest people you know.

You shrug and nearly trip over the shrubs that Michael has so effortlessly avoided. You get what he means though. There’s always been a lot of energy running through Rooster Teeth. Something tangibly energetic thrums at the very center of what the company stands for to the point where “loud and obnoxious” seems to almost be a requirement to work for the company in the first place. You’re pretty sure it’s one of the main reasons you were hired. Doesn’t mean the energy doesn’t wear on your nerves and leave you a jittery mess some days.

“I mean. I guess,” You say as you regain your balance, “What are you showing me though? This isn’t going to be fucking weird is it?”

Michael stops in front of a ladder against the side of the building. He turns around and frowns, “Only if you make it weird.”

“Well, you like it when I make it weird. It’s what I do,” You say as you shield the sun from your eyes and survey the ladder. How high does it go? You assume it leads to the roof, but that can’t be safe. Or legal. Or something.

Michael chuckles at your comment and puts his foot on the bottom rung, “Follow me, smartass.”

You follow.

When you get to the top, your question is answered and you find that, yes, the ladder does in fact lead to the roof. You’re still not sure if it’s entirely legal, but the view is incredible and the breeze is cool. You turn to Michael, who’s observing your reaction with an unreadable look.

You’re pretty sure your face is caught between impressed and amused, so you settle for shoving your hands in your pockets and asking him the first question that pops into your head.

“How did –”

Or at least you would have asked him how he found about this place if Michael hadn’t roughly pressed his fingers to your lips to cut you off. You frown at him, slightly offended because what the fuck was that for?

Michael looks too serious for you to hold on to your indignation. Your protests melt from your tongue as Michael’s fingers fall from your mouth and he holds a single finger up to his own lips. Right. Okay. You get it now. He wants it to be quiet up here. That’s understandable, you figure, so you nod to show that you’ll follow his rule.

The severity in Michael’s face fades into relief as he drops his hand to his side. He smiles. He turns. He makes his way a few feet across the roof, careful to keep his balance, and you can’t help but to follow. The two of you find a nice place to sit, where the sun beats down warm and welcoming and the breeze tickles your face.

You’re enjoying the day, eyes closed and feeling the breeze, when Michael’s fingers brush yours. The sudden heat sends a jolt up your arm that makes you pull back. You look at him with an eyebrow raised. You're asking him what he is doing. He shrugs like that’s a good enough answer.

A beat passes.

Then another.

And another.

You find yourself counting your heartbeats. You slowly place your hand back in the space between the two of you. You watch Michael’s expression as you do so.

His eyes dart down to look at your hand now placed next to his and if he could speak he’d probably crack a joke about how light you look even next to him. Instead he looks up and stares into your eyes longer than you’re really comfortable with. He brushes his fingers against yours again.

You don’t pull away this time.

If he doesn’t think this is weird, doesn’t consider it strange or bizarre, then you’ll put up with it. You’ll see how far this goes.

When he’s tangled his fingers up with yours, he sighs and continues to stare. His gaze is less intense and you feel less uncomfortable that you did a few seconds ago. He looks like he wants to say something. Thanks to his own rule though, he can’t, and you’re grateful for that because you’re not really up for cracking a joke to diffuse the tension right now. So you smile, soft and unsteady, and look away.

Fluffy clouds lazily roll across the sky, stark white crests against an endless blue canvas, and you believe this is a moment you’re going to think about for a long time.

As you sit in silence, you can feel the stress washing off of you in slow-seeping ripples, stress you hadn’t even realized was there. You’ve been holding on to it for so long the weight on your shoulders has become routine, but sitting in silence on the roof watching the clouds sail by with Michael next to you washes all of that tension away.

You’re aware that time is passing, that your lunch hour is almost up and the two of you should be heading back down, fed or not. Michael knows it too. He stretches and you can hear his joints crack in the silence. He ruffles your hair before standing and the touch feels intense almost, amplified in the absence of sound. You swat his hand away and go to follow him off the roof.

He doesn’t mention the place after you climb down. He doesn’t mention it when you get back to the office either. You assume this is part of keeping it a secret and don’t breathe a word.

The next time you find yourself on the roof, you’re alone and trying to catch your breath. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest and you can’t control it no matter how hard you try. You can hear your own stuttering gasps biting into the silence, carving it into muted slivers, but you can’t worry about that now. Secret rules or not, you’re pretty sure you’re dying right now and you’d rather not be the subject of next week’s RT Life.

The stupid thing is this shortness of breath and panic came on so suddenly. One minute you’re talking to Barbara about grocery shopping this weekend and the next fear floods your every nerve and your chest tightens up. You excuse yourself and duck out of the office as fast as you can. You flee to the first place you can think of that’s secluded enough for you to gather your thoughts and figure out what the fuck is happening to you. Well, it’s the second place you think of, but the bathroom is too far of a walk and likely to be occupied.

Your heart is still pounding behind your ribs and your chest feels like it’s trying to implode. You feel like you’re about to puke. You wonder if you’ll die up here of some unknown disease. They’ll find your body weeks later and wonder what killed you.

Probably should have eaten less Red Baron, they’ll say, he always was a lazy fuck.

You’re interrupted from thinking about your own funeral and clawing feebly at your chest by a pair of soft hands cupping your face. Your eyes focus and you’re staring at Michael. He looks concerned, like really worried, and you guess you would be too if you found your best friend dying on the roof of a sound stage.

His hands feel nice against your face. They’re warm and steady and you want to lean into the touch.

Michael’s not saying anything, he’s just breathing really loudly and really slowly and you’re confused why he’s doing that. Is he showing off? Because that’s really fucking rude when some people can’t even breath without almost choking right now.

Then it hits your oxygen deprived brain that he wants you to mimic him. He’s trying to help you out here and you’re too busy being offended that he can breathe while you feel like you’re dying (and you might be, who knows anymore).

You follow his lead.

You breathe in as best you can. Michael holds his breath so you hold yours. Then he exhales and you shakily copy him. Michael inhales again and so do you. Hold it. Wait for it. Exhale.

As your mind stops racing and your heart slows to a steady pace, you realize what happened. You’ve seen this on movies and tv shows before. You were having a panic attack. You were having a panic attack and that’s fucking bullshit because who panics for no reason in the middle of a work day?

Michael’s hands fall away from your face, but he rests one on your shoulder and tilts his head. He’s asking you if you’re okay. You’re not sure if “okay” is the best word for what you are, but you’re definitely better than you were a few minutes ago. You nod as you slowly slump to the ground. You may feel relatively better, but the whole experience wiped you out. You hope Michael understands.

He does understand, as per usual, and runs his fingers through your hair before climbing down the ladder. He returns a few minutes later with a water bottle and a towel. When he hands you the towel you realize that you’re ridiculously sweaty. Your shirt clings to your sticky skin and it feels really gross so you tug it over your head. You must still be exhausted from having to fight to breathe because you just sit there with your shirt in one hand, a towel in the other, and a water bottle between your knees. You look up at Michael, still trying to work through the residual haze of your panic.

Michael smiles like he’s trying not to laugh and takes the towel from you. He towels off your hair. You close your eyes and drink in the touch. It’s firm and just on the side of rough and you like this, this feeling of being cared for. You wonder if it’s because you’re a Mama’s Boy or if it’s because it’s Michael. Whatever the reason, Michael finishes drying your hair and drapes the towel around your neck. He takes your shirt and lays it on the roof. Maybe it will dry in the sun.

You crack open the water and take a sip. A sip turns into a lengthy drink as you realize just how thirsty you actually are. Michael watches you with that weird look on his face that you haven’t been able to place lately. The one that’s a mix of amusement and something else. (Adoration? Skepticism?)

When you’re done drinking you let loose what is probably the longest belch of your life. Michael gives you a thumbs up. 10/10. Would burp again.

He sits down next to you and your shoulders are touching, your bare skin to the fabric of his hoodie, and you take a few minutes to just breathe. You’ll be okay. So long as Michael stays by you and you can feel his heat just beneath his cotton sleeves, you’ll be okay.

It’s nearly a week later when you find yourself up on the roof again. The sun is settling below the horizon, lighting the sky in a brilliant display of reds and oranges as it does so, and your fingers are linked with Michael’s.

He has been really touchy all day: grabbing people by the arm, prodding their sides, pulling at their cheeks and ears. Jack got fed up by noon and gave Michael a very stern warning that was noted and abided by for the rest of the day. Geoff and Ryan shoved him away until he gave up. Gavin humored him for most of the day, but around two it was apparent that what little patience he had had worn thin. You were the only one who didn’t mind, but that was because you didn’t care.

If Michael wants to wipe his sweaty hands on you after playing GTA V, you’ll complain about it but you’ll still let him. If he wants to drape his arms over your shoulders and watch you play Octodad for an Achievement Guide, you’ll let him do that too. If he wants to drag you up to the roof as soon as it hits five, making up some bogus excuse about how the two of you are going to get home, you’ll let him but only on the condition that you don’t end up walking home.

You aren’t sure if Michael is going through something right now or if he’s just having an off day, but the clinginess doesn’t bother you.

The sun continues to dip lower and lower, the light of the day going with it. Stars twinkle in the inky darkness it leaves behind, the moon shines in the sun’s place, and suddenly Austin becomes something idyllic. The land below you stretches in shadowy acres but the sky above looks like something straight off of a postcard.

Michael’s fingers are still hot and entwined with yours. You turn to look at his face and are surprised to find that he is looking at you. The moon and stars aren’t quite enough to light up the roof, but the streetlights in the parking lot faintly glow from below. His eyes flicker across your face and that unreadable, mixed up expression of his is back.  Then he’s staring right into your eyes and you don’t know what to say.

You remember that you don’t have to say anything. This is the roof. You _can’t_ say anything. It’s against the rule.

So you let yourself stare back. You feel like you’re looking at him for the first time. You never noticed the way his top lip dips right in the middle, almost like a heart. The way his nose flares out just a bit is brand new information to your senses. His eyebrows arc in gentle curves just above his eyes and you didn’t know that before right now.

The silence is still there, still floating in the space between you, but something else is starting to creep in. Michael raises his free hand, the one not tangled up with yours, and rests it on your shoulder. You don’t flinch, you don’t question it, you just look him in the eyes and await his next move.

His palm is damp as he runs it up the side of your neck. He does it slowly, so slowly, and you want to close your eyes and enjoy the touch. But you don’t. You stare Michael down as his thumb flicks your earlobe before tracing along the shell of your ear. His fingers splay across the side of your face like five clammy points of contact. Michael takes his index finger and begins to draw shapes on your face. He draws them over your chapped lips and traces a line down the bridge of your nose.

You watch the expression on his face change. He visibly relaxes and there must be something therapeutic about what’s happening between you two right now.

When he is done following invisible curves across your skin, he sighs. Whatever has been bugging him all day is gone. He pulls his hand out of your grasp and stands. It’s time to head home, but you’re not sure if you’re going to be getting any sleep tonight. The fevered sensation of Michael’s touch has burned wraithlike patterns into your skin.

The place on the roof becomes a sanctuary for the two of you over the passing weeks. Whenever you need time alone you go to the roof. Whenever you need time together (Just you and Michael, you notice. Never Gavin nor Jon nor Lindsay. Just you.) you seek out the ladder behind the building and climb the rusted rungs.

You like to think that this secret has made things stronger between the two of you. Team No Name is wiping the floor with everyone else in Let’s Plays. The “Team Better Friends” jokes fade into background noise. Most, if not all, of your pictures on twitter are with Michael. You don’t spend as many nights in as you used to.

In all the time you and Michael are spending together, not once do either of you mention the roof. It’s weird, because it’s obvious to you that the roof – or perhaps the secret of the roof – is some sort of catalyst between you. It’s weird because the roof has clearly seeped into other parts of your life and simultaneously exists both everywhere and not at all.

You don’t have a problem with keeping the secret, like you said before: you’re good at keeping them, but you do have a problem with the steadily mounting tension between the two of you. It’s nearly tangible and reminds you of the tension you felt seep away the first time he showed you his secret.

It’s takes you too long to realize that it’s not tension you’re feeling, but longing. That what you’re fighting isn’t the urge to shove him when he wins GO! or flick him off when he screws you over in GTA, but a burning compulsion to reach out and caress his cheek or kiss the laugh lines in his face.

You wonder if anybody else can feel it, if _he_ can feel it. It seems like the whole world is aware. Aware of what you’re still not quite sure, but you catch the look on Geoff’s face when you drop a cup of coffee on Michael’s desk. You see the glint in Gavin’s eyes when he grabs the back of your chair and declares war as he wheels you into “his boi”. There’s a really irritating smile that Kara shoots your way when you loiter around the office on certain Monday evenings when certain people are on certain podcasts.

And you’d like to correct yourself from earlier because you do have a problem keeping this secret. You want to talk to him about the roof, to tell him how you feel – how he _makes_ you feel – but there is no right time to do it.

There are days when the two of you are up there and simply stare into each other's eyes. Lose yourselves in the silence. Days when you try to use rough thumb pads brushing over high cheekbones to write poetry across his face. Write the words you can’t speak, draw the sonnets that won’t fall from your lips. You hope your touch creates tactile prose penned in caresses so that it burns just under his skin (and you know it burns, it has to, because you see him absentmindedly pressing his fingers to his face throughout the day). You hope and you pray because you can never talk about it so long as that place is secret and shrouded in silence.

But there comes a day when the pressure in your chest is too much to bear and the touches and the silence only makes it worse. It’s a day when the two of you are on the roof with your fingers linked and the silence is thick and weighty. You can't take it anymore and the words tumble out of your mouth in a rush past a dry tongue and cracked lips.

“I love you.”

The sanctity of this place is ruined for the both of you now and you hope you don't end up regretting this.


End file.
